


I'm Holding Out For a Hero (though one that didn't need rescuing would've been nice)

by EmeraldWaters



Series: Speedy and Arrowguy [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AIM are useless tbh, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aromantic Natasha Romanov, Bisexual Natasha Romanov, Civil War doesn't happen, I will not force her into any unnecessary romantic subplots, M/M, Minor Character(s), Not that it's a huge plot point or anything, Only tagging the characters who were in this for more than two seconds, Overprotective Pietro Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff Lives, Pietro Maximoff is a hypocrite, Pre-Relationship, Though she ends up in Sam's bed, too many tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 04:32:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7252198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldWaters/pseuds/EmeraldWaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Pietro Maximoff is alive, and what did Clint ever do to deserve this?</p><p>OR</p><p>The AU nobody asked for where Laura and Clint separated mutually as of a few years ago, Clint is in his late twenties and Pietro’s actually alive.</p><p>Updated: 05/02/17</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Holding Out For a Hero (though one that didn't need rescuing would've been nice)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a combination of the Marvel Cinematic Unisverse, the Comics and Avengers Assemble. I got this idea a few months ago and it wouldn't leave me alone.
> 
> This is part one of four. It isn't crack but it isn't meant to be taken too seriously - these characters really need a break from all the doom and gloom! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy :)
> 
> DISCLAIMER:I do not own any of these characters, they all belong to Marvel. I will not make any money from this.

 

Although it pains him to admit, Clint should’ve seen it coming. Because despite what Tony says, he can see perfectly well up-close, _thank you_. And as much as he’d like to blame it on Deadpool – who had been _fucking_ annoying, _all day_ – Clint really doesn't have anyone to blame but himself.

 

* * *

 

“Your suit is very well-made,” comes the comment from behind him, and Clint sighs becauseapparently he's not even allowed two minutes of quiet. 

He lets it go.

From Clint's vantage point he can see that the sun has now in fact risen, and the pink streaking across the sky is most likely blood. _Cheerful._

The Avengers had gotten a tip at 5am, something about “terrifying creatures of Satan wreaking havoc on the streets.” (Or something).

Although the creatures are terrifyingly ugly (with your choice of: huge dogs with rabid bunny-faces, slime-monster things with moth wings and ugh, AIM goons), they seem quite content with trying to kill The Avengers rather than civilians, so there’s that. Regardless, it’s still only about 9am when their numbers start to diminish.

Clint steps back as four slimy-moth-things burst upwards past the edge of the building, screeching. They all dive at him at once, their beaks wickedly-curved, but he picks them all off with one explosive arrow. Which, in hindsight, as blood and guts and slime rain down on him, was probably not a good idea.

Irritated, Clint  ~~sulks~~  is quiet for the next half hour, just picking off the remaining enemies. They may not be allowed to kill the AIM goons but Clint enjoys hitting them in increasingly smaller places with his blunter arrowheads (50 points for the knee, 10 for the elbow). It’s funny to watch. But once the slime-moths are dead,  there isn’t much for him to do, except stay on the roof and give the others information. “Cap, Widow, you have two bunnydogs coming on your ’10. They can’t stop worth a damn,” he reels off, shooting another arrow into the fray. “Falcon, the soldiers are trying to encircle you but if you fly outta there you can attack from the back. They won’t look up. Scott-”

“-The purple does wonders for your ass,” Wade interjects, interrupting not only Clint’s instructions but also his train of thought.

Clint – who despite everything - is a professional, he waits until he’s relayed his last message before turning around to glare at Wade because _fuck you_ asshole. But what the _fuck,_ because Wade is now reclining on a deck chair, sipping an orange cocktail _through his mask._

“What the hell?!” Clint asks, so _done,_ pinching the bridge of his nose to calm himself down, because this has to be one of the ten weirdest things he’s ever seen and there is not enough coffee in the world to deal with something like this.

“Don’t ask me, I’m not writing this thing,” Wade replies shrugging, and taps his gun against the armrest. “I wonder how I got this up here?”

Clint just stares. “I can’t believe this is actually my life,” he finally mutters, turning around just in time to get a gun across the face.

Deadpool crowing “home run!” is the last thing he hears before his vision goes black.

 

* * *

 

 _Nat is going to kill me_ is the first conscious thought he has. He’d woken slowly – under the pretence of sluggish – but in spite of an aching head and the eye glued closed by blood, Clint is immediately awake. He may be a walking disaster but he’s a spy first and foremost, and coming to in a foreign room certainly warrants a degree of wariness.

The room is standard: 4x4 with grey walls and no discerning features. He’s tied to a chair in the middle of the room, opposite a wooden desk. His bracer is still on. Over his shoulder there’s a door in the far-right corner, and the dim light above flickers every so often.

They’ve tied the ropes around his ankles too tight – he’s going to lose the feeling in his limbs – but nothing’s broken and even with slightly blurred vision, he can make out ‘AIM’ engraved on one of the table legs, which instantly puts him more at ease. Clint’s already spotted the camera in the potted plant, a one-way mirror on the far left wall and they’ve left his comm in. Idiots.

His teammates are probably already on their way. Right?

 

* * *

 

By the second hour, Clint’s bored. Resigned to the fact _~~the~~ ~~team is never gonna get here~~_ he’s doing everything to get attention. Good idea? Probably not, but when has he ever been known for good ideas? 

“What kind of Government secret does one have to spill to get some coffee?” He asks loudly, aiming his gaze at the blinking light in the corner.

No response. Weird, AIM is usually more desperate.

 

* * *

 

By the third hour, Clint’s going out of his mind. Although the pain in his head as subsided somewhat, every single one of his extremities is prickling and he’s positive there’s a fly in the room because there’s a constant buzzing that’s making his eye twitch. His right wrist aches from being held at an unnatural angle but Clint only has himself to blame for the fact his belt buckle is the only sharp thing he has in reach.

To make it less obvious (he needn’t bother really) Clint has taken to glaring at the pot plant which is actually without a doubt, now that he’s looking properly, the ugliest thing he’s ever seen. _Who’d want a pot plant that ugly anyway_ he thinks angrily, twisting his wrist a little further. It’s hideous.

 

* * *

 

The door opens on the fourth hour just as Clint’s tipped his chair over, spinning the leg around as he falls so he lands on his side, away from the door. He’s been in this business a long time; twisting and grabbing and pulling before he’s hoisted none-too-gently upright. He’s not fazed by the brickhouse behind him, nor the two flanking the man that just walked in – he’s battled worse odds and walked away unscathed – in fact Clint wants to laugh. This is the best they’ve got?

When the man in the middle asks the first question – obviously the one calling the shots – Clint’s eyes nearly roll right out of his head.

“I don’t think you quite understand the definition of an interrogation. Do you think I’d really just _‘let slip’_ Captain America’s weaknesses? How stupid do you think I am?  God, terrorist organizations have really gone downhill,” Clint says, smile growing with the man’s anger.

Surely they knew who they were dealing with? Blasé attitude? Check. Amazing ability to piss off almost everyone he talks to? Check. Inability to take himself and his captors seriously? Double check.

His grin widens when the man moves around the desk to get up in his face, spittle flying from his mouth as he repeats the question at what he expects is twice the normal volume. _Thank you Tony for designing auto volume-correcting comms._ The edge of the papers the man had just slammed onto the table curl up, before settling back into place.

And Clint’s smile dies as quickly as the fading trail of blue in his peripheral does.

 

* * *

 

In the time it takes to blink, all three men are lying motionless at the edge of the room and Clint’s hand pauses against the rope. _Gulp._  He’s well and truly screwed now.

Air whips across his face like a slap and Clint is unable to fully suppress his wince. Meek isn’t a look he wears well, but Clint feels like it’s written across his face when he looks back up to see Pietro leaning against the desk, scowling. Anger is etched into every inch of the man’s body and he doesn’t speak, but Clint can feel the frostiness of his gaze when he resumes cutting himself free.

It takes him ten minutes. Ten long minutes because all of his muscles have fallen asleep – he’s gonna have _blisters_ – and Pietro doesn’t help, choosing to instead mutter in angry Sovokian before disappearing out of the room.

By the time Clint cuts the last rope from his ankle, Pietro is back, looking slightly less like he’s about to murder Clint. He doesn’t miss the quiver slung across Pietro’s back either, or his bow on the desk behind him, and Clint can deal with the anger if he gets to have them back in his hands again.

But screw the silence.

“You’re not gonna ignore me the whole time are you? Cause you’d not only be denying yourself the pleasure of conversation with me, but it’s also gonna make for an awkward walk home.”

Pietro rolls his eyes – as expected – and takes a bite of the apple he’s pulled from apparently nowhere, but the corner of his mouth lifts slightly. Clint’s forgiven. _YUSS, SCORE!_ Pietro’s protectiveness is a hard-earned privilege, even though most of the time it’s unwarranted and he just gets angry at you.

“You better hurry up Old Man, before I am as old as you,” Pietro says as Clint shakes his legs out, trying to get them to stop prickling.

It’s his turn to roll his eyes (for what feels like the sixth time this hour); he’s not even five years older than the twins, “I thought I told you not to call me that,” he replies snippily, but moves to stand quickly.

Too quickly, because he’s been tied down for four hours and has no feeling in his legs. He stumbles, Pietro moving to catch him only inches before he hits the ground – the asshole, and in his usual manner sets Clint down too fast. He staggers again, off-balance.

“For a spy, you are quite clumsy no?” Pietro says, smirking. He knows full well Clint usually has perfect steadiness. Clint wants to wipe that smirk off his face.

But before he can make a terribly witty reply, Pietro freezes. Hand against his ear, he speaks a rapid string of Sovokian, but his “you are certain?” is in English and so are the following swear words.

“We have to go. They know I am here.”

 

* * *

 

For once, luck is on his side and the first few corridors are pretty empty. The fifth, Clint takes out three guards with an arrow; the seventh Pietro darts ahead to clear the way. After that though, the numbers steadily increase and Clint knows it’s not going to be long before they’re surrounded.

By the nineteenth corridor, he can see something isn’t right. He’s keeping pace with Pietro, meaning the kid is _walking,_ and walking _slow enough_ that Clint’s jog is the same speed. He does the math.

“You idiot. Did you not eat?”

"There was no time."

"I suppose there was also no time to remember you have an incredibly fast metabolism?" Clint replies sarcastically because the situation demands it.

“I was trying to find you Old Man. The team seems to think you’re important.”

He ignores the jab. Now, Clint may not be Tony Stark level of genius, but he’s smart enough to read between the lines and _fuck,_ because the kid has come alone. Forget Nat, the whole team is going to murder him. O _h god, Wanda…_

By the time they round the twenty-fifth bend, Pietro is leaning heavily against Clint’s shoulder; his face pinched. With his powers, he’s supposed to consume a ridiculous amount of calories. It’s dangerous if he doesn’t – Clint remembers tubes and beeping and an ashen face. 

"I swear to god kid, if you die on me, I'm going to resurrect you just so Wanda can kill you herself for being such an idiot." 

They turn the corner and Clint has to pull them both back to avoid being riddled with bullets. There must be about twenty AIM agents standing there, armed to the hilt and if he heard correctly, thirty more on the way. Clint sighs ill-sufferingly and reaches for another arrow. When his hand reaches fewer arrows than expected, his stomach drops. A quick glance confirms there are only five ordinary ones left. Pietro is sagging against the wall Clint propped him against. A dull pound starts in Clint’s head and his swollen eye is aching.

“Fuck me,” he curses lowly.

Because Pietro – despite a pale face and lack of strength is a little shit – smirks, and says “maybe later.”

His accent curls around the words _just the right way_ and Clint pretends he didn't find that hot. Ignoring his own reaction – which Clint is getting used to because apparently that's his life now – he pulls out all the concealed weapons that AIM didn’t manage to find. They really are useless.

He tosses a knife and a handgun to Pietro.

“Hold on Speedy, this could get interesting.”

 

* * *

 

“No.” Clint says, trying to get Pietro out of his way but when he gets cut off again, he knows this isn’t a game he’ll win. Still, he’s not going down without a fight. “I don’t need to go to the hospital.”

Because miraculously, they’d survived, Clint and Pietro are now standing on the sidewalk outside of the public hospital, arguing. Clint’s head has really started to hurt – and hey, have there always been two Pietros?

“Your head is bleeding and you called me Bruce before. I’m right about this Old Man.”

Clint scowls up at Pietro – the kid only has about an inch or two on him, but it doesn’t mean he likes it – and stands his ground. He knows about delayed concussion, knows how dangerous it is; just as he knows how he despises the sterile walls and awful chemical-smell of the hospital.

“Hypocrite,” he retorts, another wave of nausea washing over him as Pietro sways on the spot. 

“I’m not the one who ran off alone,” Clint mutters, but it trails off to nothing when he notices the kid staring over his shoulder, looking quite horrified.

 

* * *

 

Later, when they’re back at the tower, Pietro and Clint sit next to each other in silence. Bandaged up and berated (Clint had laughed at the absolute tongue-lashing Wanda was giving Pietro, until she’d started on him too. He hadn’t been expecting that) they eat dinner under the watchful eye of Vision. Neither of them dare to move. Sam walks by with a bowl of popcorn and a laugh that quickly turns into a cough when Wanda looks at him.

_Atta girl._

Nat and Sam share a conspiring look over the popcorn and turn to grin at him at the same time. Great, that was creepy. 

“Right,” Tony says loudly, clapping his hands as he walks into the room. Everybody turns to look at him and Steve makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a snort.

“I believe an update is in order,” He continues, tapping his phone screen twice and using his thumb and forefinger to widen the image until it takes up a good portion of the wall.

Clint groans when he realizes it’s ‘The Chart.’ The Chart is a table Tony drew up last year which keeps track of how many times a person has been kidnapped. As Tony adds his newest tally mark with a flourish, Clint realizes that with three tally marks to his name, he’s second to last. Thankfully, Steve is well and truly ahead of him with 25, three of those from this month _alone._ Nat, Bruce, Wanda, Pietro and Vis rank top with none and Sam and Tony are tied on one. Thor’s one and a half is a little confusing but the details of his ‘capture’ are still a little unclear. Clint’s not sure if the God was pretending to be unconscious or not.

“You’re still in the lead Spangles!” Tony announces, not looking up, “it must be all the speeches about hope and freedom.”

Steve’s answer is muffled to Clint but he bets it contains a few choice swear words. 'Language' his ass, Cap has the foulest mouth out of the whole team.

Clint knows that under his joking facade Tony is beating himself up over his tech being disrupted - even though Clint would never blame him, who knew AIM would be smart enough to scramble a tracker half-decently? He makes a promise to stop dropping down on Tony from the vents… For a week. Clint also knows that Tony has a big mouth, and by goading Steve – as he is still doing – is veering into dangerous territory. The rest of their conversation is lost to him however, when he notices that half of his food is missing and Pietro is all too quiet to pass for innocent. 

He rests his hand on the back of Pietro’s stool and spins him to face him, raising a brow at the unapologetic expression. Nobody steals Clint’s food and gets away with it.

“The food was quite tough, did not want you breaking a tooth Old Man.”

By God, Clint is sick of that nickname.

"Yeah?” He replies in a soft voice, leaning towards the other man, close enough to see each individual eyelash as they flutter in confusion. “That was kind of you,” he continues, hooking his foot around the stool. “Besides, I never got to thank you for coming to get me,” Clint’s voice has dropped to a whisper, and he can feel Pietro’s breath on his neck when his lips part in surprise.

All in one motion, Clint pulls; sweeping the chair out from under Pietro; who is so surprised, he isn’t fast enough to stop his crash to the floor.

All heads turn at the noise, to see Pietro sprawled across the ground and everybody, even Wanda, starts to laugh. Clint laughs so hard he’s nearly in tears _._ He hasn’t laughed that hard in a long time.

Pietro’s face is red all the way to the white tips of his hair. He’s frowning and when Clint looks down at him he disappears. Clint moves to follow him – maybe he was too harsh - but Wanda waves her hand in the direction he must’ve gone. “Leave him, he will get over it. You just hurt his pride no?”

Heeding her comment as she knows him better than he does, Clint clears up their plates and heads to the couches to sit at Nat’s feet; who immediately uses him as a footrest to paint her toes. As the night wears on, as people come and go (he doesn’t miss Sam and Tasha leaving together either) and as the baseball game turns into a movie, Clint forgets to analyse Wanda’s choice of words – because it almost seemed like there was a warning in there.

He wishes he hadn’t.

Clint should’ve known “getting over it” meant “getting even.”

Because a week later, his shriek mixes with Tony’s when they walk in to find the coffee maker in pieces.

 


End file.
